Four Ways til Thursday
by Felix and Ferdinand
Summary: Have you ever wondered what would happen if Steph got knocked up, Ranger moved away, and a badass assassin wanted revenge for no apparent reason? If so, you're in luck! Because that's exactly what happens here. Prequel.
1. Chapter 1

_It is a truth universally acknowledged that a novice assassin must be in want of the perfect mark._  
Splendor Posthumously: A Ginger LeBouff Novel, DJ Roberts

"FOUR WAYS 'TIL THURSDAY"

**Part Uno: La Asesina**

"Hold still, motherfucker."

I brushed my hair out of my face, and looked back through the scope, lining up the crosshairs on my mark.

I sucked in some air and tightened my grip, and followed him.

"Patience, Maria," I told myself. "Wait for it."

He walked by the window once, then twice, and settled into a black leather desk chair.

"Wait for it."

He swiveled to face the computer screen, and I had my chance. What a shot what a chance what a shot.

What a shot.

Make it clean.

Make it swift.

Pull the trigger.

"Now."

The shot rang out and echoed off the tops of buildings, blending in with the heavy traffic below.

Sometime later, I was lazing peacefully on a Swan Boat, tallying my score. A confirmed kill on Carlos Manoso ran high at 500 points, plus a 100 point bonus for having gotten through RangeMan security. The bonus would be disputed, since I hadn't been inside the building, but I would deal with that later.

I felt a smile coming on as I folded my notebook and tucked it inside my bag. The day was definitely perking up.


	2. Chapter 2

_But behind the eyes of every assassin lies a guaranteed truth - that the transition from hunter to prey is an inevitable one, accepted and unchallenged._

Anger Posthumously: A Ginger LeBouff Novel, DJ Roberts

"FOUR WAYS 'TIL THURSDAY"

**Part Dos: El Mercenario**

Carlos Manoso left Trenton, New Jersey, under the worst possible circumstances: his business was crumbling, his health was fading, and Stephanie Plum - his friend and longtime protégé - was pregnant and engaged to another man.

Time had passed, and things had changed, but in the back of his mind, a perpetual hesitance lay over the city that had once served as his base of operation, and the need to hear her voice had become too intense to abolish completely.

He checked the clock at the top right-hand corner of his computer screen. It was almost noon, her time, and he knew she would be home. The phone on his desk taunted him with the same derisive heckling it had shown since he had first arrived in Miami. He tried to turn his attention to work, to the view outside his fifth floor office, to the lemon chicken sitting cold and soggy on his lush mahogany desk, and so on, but it was no use.

He picked up the phone and punched in her number, and felt a shiver run down his spine when her voice came over the line.

"Hello?"

Ranger held his breath; the intensity had rendered him unable to speak.

"Hello?" Stephanie said again. _"Hello-o-o?"_

There was a series of pops, followed by a loud crash, and Ranger's chest tightened as the phone clattered onto the floor.

He pressed a button on his phone and connected with the control room. "I need a location on Stephanie Plum," he ordered. "Use the GPS on her cell phone. Send a team to that location. Do it _now!_"

Ranger switched lines again and listened intently, trying to make out the mumbled conversation in the background. He had only four days prior been the target of a ruthless assassin who had gotten in a lucky shot, shattering his office window and grazing his temple. As far as rational thought went, he knew Stephanie would be safe from such an altercation - he had taken every precaution to protect her, even though they were apart - but he reasoned there would always be an underlying fear and anxiety that despite his efforts to keep her safe and happy, her fate and his might very well be one and the same.

Ranger was shaken from his haunting reverie by the sound of Stephanie's voice coming over the line.

"How many times have I asked you not to play with guns in the house?" Stephanie asked, and Ranger imagined she was talking to one or both of her children. "I don't care that they're not real bullets. I don't want you going around, shooting at your sister. . . . Oh, yeah? Well, we'll talk about this when your father gets home."

The shuffling of footsteps grew louder, and Stephanie picked up the phone and sighed into it. "Now's not a good time," she said tersely into the receiver.

And then she disconnected.

The door to Ranger's office opened and Marcel stepped inside. "We have a location on Stephanie Plum," he said. "Vincent and Michael are on the way there now."

Ranger nodded. "Good," he said, relieved. "Tell me about Novak."

"We've been tracking his movements in Miami since the incident in Trenton," Marcel said. "There's a shipment going out tonight. We have a team in place."

"Horatio know about this?"

"No," Marcel said.

"Let's keep it that way."

Ranger stood and pushed away from his desk. He crossed the room, making his way toward the tall locking cabinet situated between two exotic fish tanks. Marcel flicked him an uneasy glance.

"How many people has she killed?" Marcel asked.

Ranger tightened his gun belt around his waist and assessed Marcel through narrowed eyes. He was ten feet away, shrugging into Kevlar, waiting for Ranger's response.

"How many people has she killed?" Marcel asked again, this time more loudly.

"Twenty-two at last count," Ranger said to him. "And I heard you the first time."

Marcel checked his weapon and let out a low descending whistle. "She's getting good," he said. "Too good. Looks like you're missing part of an ear. You sure you're up for this?"

Ranger brought himself to full height and nodded in Marcel's direction. He fastened the tabs on his vest, and said, "I want this over with."

Marcel nodded, and the two men exited the office. The control room in the RangeMan Miami building was sleek, high-tech, and painted bright green, a sharp contrast to the muted earth tones of the buildings in Boston and Trenton. Ranger thought about this and what it could mean, but in the end, chose to cast aside his wistfulness and focus on the job at hand.

"Hold up," Silvio said, just as the elevator doors pinged open. "Ranger, I need to speak with you. It's urgent."

Ranger nodded in Silvio's direction. He arranged to meet Marcel downstairs, and then followed Silvio back to his desk.

"There's been a hit on your account," Silvio said, strategically hitting the keys on his touchpad. "Numerous unauthorized charges. They started two days ago."

Ranger leaned forward and squinted at the screen. "Pull them up."

Silvio did as he was told, and soon the screen was filled with dates, locations, and purchase amounts, including a boat rental, forty units of an undisclosed chemical substance, and a chopped salad and unsweetened iced tea from the Kahlua Café.

"Do you need more information?" Silvio asked. "Signature panels?"

"That won't be necessary," Ranger said, his tone a forced calm. "I know who's behind this."

Ranger locked eyes with Silvio, causing Silvio to gulp.

_"Finn."_


	3. Chapter 3

_"Where you from?"_

"Flint."

_Ginger crossed her arms over her chest and raised an eyebrow at Lilah._

_"What?" Lilah asked. "You're from Flint, aren't you?"_

_"Somewhere around there."_

_"Then I'm from Flint."_

_Ginger through her a look. "What if I said I was from Toledo? Would you be from there, too?"_

_Lilah scraped the mustard off her backwards cheeseburger and shrugged. "Doesn't matter," she said. "Flint, Toledo, Sacramento . . . it's all the same."_

Betrothed Posthumously: A Ginger LeBouff Novel, DJ Roberts

**Part Tres: La Activista**

There's a problem with the world today.

Maybe you can't see it. Maybe you don't want to. Maybe you're too close to the problem to be an effective solution. Or maybe--just maybe--you're colorblind. Whatever. It doesn't matter. The important thing is that _I_ see it. It's like my blessing, my curse, and my calling, all rolled into one. It's the reason I _breathe_, you know?

It's, like, my job to save the world, or something.

And in the midst of this, like, fantasmological epiphany, there was only one question on my mind:

"Do you have these in blue?"

The saleslady at Jeffrey Sebelia New York stopped what she was doing--folding what had to be the _ugliest _purple mohair sweater I had _ever_ seen outside, like, one of those stores that take all those _old things_ you don't want so they can, like, sell them to, you know, people who are poor and have no taste, or whatever--and turned to look at the suede kitten-heel boots on the second shelf.

"I'm sorry," she said. "Beige and black only."

"Um, no," I said. "You're wrong. They have to come in blue." I pulled out my color wheel and chose a shade called Ocean Mosaic. "_This_ blue."

The lady looked at me and gave me a half-smile. "Beige and black only," she repeated.

I thought I was going to _vomit_.

I mean, beige and black? How is that _even_ possible? Like, everybody _knows_ that beige and black have been _banned_ as staples in a spring collection ever since Vera Wang suffered from, like, temporary insanity, or whatever, and downloaded Evanescence onto her iPod. I swear, sometimes I feel like I am the _only one_ who cares enough about the world to read back issues of _W_.

"You must be new," I said, linking our arms together, "so I'm going to give you some pointers, okay? Blue is the new pink. Pink is the old chartreuse. Grape is on its way to becoming eggplant, and green is _only_ acceptable if you're choosing a color for leggings. But only then if they're worn under pants, not skirts, unless you have, like, really small thighs like mine."

We took a moment to compare our thighs, and I blew out a sigh. God, it's so depressing to be in the minority sometimes. I mean, it's not like it's _my_ fault I was born with perfect skin and a kick-ass metabolism. It just _happened_, you know?

"Let me check the back," the saleslady said, and she scurried away.

Two hours later, I was standing in front of the cashwrap, staring at a five-figure number, trying to remember the last time I'd spent so little money after working so hard at it.

"There's a problem with your card," the lady behind the cashwrap said. "There's no bank name on it."

"Oh, yeah. That's okay. Just swipe it. It'll go through."

The lady gave me a look. "It says Carlos Manoso," she said. "Carlos is a male name."

"Don't remind me," I said, stifling a nervous giggle while I fished my fake ID out of my bag. "My parents, like, have a sense of humor, or something."

The lady glanced at the ID and smiled. "Of course," she said. Then she swiped the card and handed me my bags. "Have a nice day."

I loaded my bags into the trunk of my Mercedes and studied my reflection in the tinted glass. I tousled my new platinum blonde extensions and was just re-applying my lip gloss when I spotted someone behind me. He was tall, with dark hair and dark clothes, his eyes hidden behind mirrored shades. I whipped around, and he slapped a cuff on my right wrist.

"Miss Finnigan," he said. "Ranger would like to have a word with you."


	4. Chapter 4

_"Step aside, Fish," Ginger said, wasting no time on pleasantries._

_Fish shook his head and strengthened his stance. "I can't do that, Ging," he said. "Betsy's my daughter. I won't let you take her."_

_"This isn't up to you," Ginger said. "I have orders from RED 9 to control the situation, and that's what I plan to do, with or without your help."_

_"She's only seven."_

_"She's dangerous!"_

_Fish looked deeply into Ginger's eyes, and for a fleeting moment, she could see a glimpse of what was hiding underneath: fear, worry, affection._

_"I'm not one to make allowances for personal investment," Ginger said. "What happened between us is long past. I will kill you if I have to."_

_Fish leaned forward and kissed her lightly on the lips. "I know," he said. "But I love you anyway."_

Defiance Posthumously: A Ginger LeBouff Novel, JD Roberts

**Part Cuatro: La Madre**

Sixteen years, six months, and twenty-three days.

That's how long it had been since Stephanie Plum had moved from her pint-sized one-bedroom, one-bath apartment on the outskirts of the Burg to the four-bedroom, three-bath Tudor-style house she shared with her family. It was a nice home, warm and safe, filled with family photos, keepsakes, and just enough clutter to make it feel lived-in.

She stood, staring at the empty patches where framed portraits had once hung, and blew out a sigh. In two days, the movers would be by to pick up the boxes and furniture, and that meant she had a lot of packing to do. But for the life of her, she just couldn't figure out how she could pack the last sixteen years into a cardboard box.

A tear popped out, then another, and Stephanie berated herself for having gotten too worked up.

_Just get it over with, Stephanie,_ she said. _There's no reason to get emotional. It's only a house._

Shaking off the feeling as best she could, Stephanie carted her boxes and rolls of tape into the master suite and set them on the edge of the naked king-sized bed. Unlike the rest of the house, the master suite was free of clutter. No photographs or artwork hung on the still-white walls. No books or CDs left scattered around. No keepsakes or trinkets collecting dust on the side tables or on top of the dresser. In fact, she noticed, there were hardly any personal touches at all, save a vase of wilting yellow roses on the table by her side of the bed.

Sixteen years, and their relationship hadn't changed one bit.

Stephanie opened the door to her end of the walk-in closet, and rummaged through her belongings until she came to an old shoebox hidden beneath a pile of too-tight sweaters and a couple moth-eaten quilts. It was lighter than she remembered, and smaller, left over from the last time she had to pack up one life to carry on with another.

She wiped the dust off the worn cardboard with tail of her shirt, and skirted a furtive glance around the room, making sure she was alone. Then she lifted the lid and looked inside.

Suddenly, sixteen years in a U-Haul was nothing compared to thirty years in a shoebox.

Stephanie sunk onto the bed and sorted through her box. The Lady Workhorse personal massager she'd killed two days after Morelli had proposed. A newspaper clipping announcing their engagement. A blank wedding invitation celebrating the union of Stephanie and Joseph. And then, the bloom from a single, perfect long-stemmed red rose, pressed flat and dried, preserved for seventeen years in a Ziploc sandwich bag.

_Ranger . . . _

He had taken the news of her pregnancy as well as could be expected - a light kiss on the lips, a smile that didn't reach his eyes, and the briefest of nods. He had wished her well, and told her to call him if she needed anything. And then he had climbed behind the wheel of his huge-ass black truck and gone away on one of those Don't Ask, Don't Tell business trips he was so fond of.

A few months later, she ran into him on her way out of the bathroom.

_"Jesus!" _

_She wiped her mouth with a damp cloth and waited for her heart-rate to go back to normal. She was more tired than usual, and more on-edge. And thanks to an episode of late-night morning sickness, she hadn't sensed Ranger sneaking into her apartment through the open bedroom window._

_"Sorry," he said. "I thought you would be sleeping."_

_Stephanie shook her head. "No rest for the wicked," she said. "Mind telling me why you're here?"_

_Ranger took a step back and put his work face on. "I'm leaving Trenton," he said._

_"You're leaving Trenton?" Stephanie asked. Ranger nodded. "For how long?"_

_"Indefinitely."_

_Stephanie brushed past him and padded into the kitchen. She rounded up a couple sliced-banana-and-peppered-turkey sandwiches, went extra-heavy on the mayo and Tabasco sauce, and started shoving it in._

_Ranger pried loose one of the sandwiches and held it out of reach. _

_"You might want to take it easy on the saturated fat," he said. "Your cholesterol went up nine points this month."_

_"How would you know?" Stephanie asked, her mouth full. "Are you checking up on me?"_

_"I'm checking up on you," Ranger said. He wrapped the sandwich in plastic and put it back in the fridge. "You need to get some sleep. You have an appointment with your obstetrician in four hours. I want you to make sure he double-checks your cervix this time."_

_"You know," Stephanie said, "that might be sweet if it wasn't so damn creepy."_

Stephanie dug through the rest of her box, pausing when she came to the only picture of Ranger she had left. She had taken it outside the bonds office on one of those rare occasions he wasn't paying attention. She had distracted him with a racy comment about her boobs, and snapped the picture before his smile had faded. And now, almost seventeen years later, she knew.

Ranger was Maria's father.

Since the day of her daughter's birth, she had noticed the resemblance. They had the same expressive brown eyes. The same mouth. The same chin. Looking at Maria was like looking at a Ranger clone, if Ranger were ever fifteen, female, and half made out of spare Plum parts.

Her eyes still fixed on Ranger's photograph, Stephanie tried to swallow down the golf-ball-sized lump in her throat. She knew she couldn't keep Joe from finding out the truth forever, no matter how badly she wished she could. Probably he already knew, but had decided not to broach the subject. After all, what difference would it make? Were they not happy? Were they not settled? Did they not have what they'd always wanted?

"Hello, Stephanie," said a voice, and Stephanie's heart skipped a beat. She whipped around and let out a shriek. Ranger was standing in the doorway. And he was armed.

"R-ranger," Stephanie stuttered. She got up off the bed and backed away, edging toward her closet. "W-why are you here?"

"You know why," Ranger said, stalking towards her, never letting go of the gun. "You didn't think I'd let her get away with this--" he pointed to his right ear, which had recently been pieced back together by an expert surgeon "--did you?"

"I didn't have anything to do with that," Stephanie said. "You know I didn't."

"I know," Ranger said, his tone steady and even. "But that doesn't change things. I've made certain allowances where you are concerned that I can't afford to grant everyone else. I've protected you, provided for you, paid your ransom when you were kidnapped by the Russian Mob. But I can't sit back and let your daughter come after me with a Remington M24-A2. That is where I draw the line."

"Ranger, wait. Please!"

But it was too late. Ranger raised the gun and fired off two shots. At first, Stephanie thought he'd missed; she hadn't felt a thing. But the stain of red pooling just below her left breast was a dead give away.

"You shot meÉ" she managed to say before dropping like a sack onto the floor.

Ranger closed the distance between them and bent down near the spot where Stephanie lay. "I only did what I had to do," he said, the remorse evident in his voice. He took her hand in his and pressed a kiss to her palm. "I hope you understand that."

She wanted to tell him that she loved him, that she missed him, that she'd done everything she could to keep her daughter--their daughter--from shooting at him with a military assault rifle, but Ranger put a finger to her lips and told her to conserve her energy. And though logic told her differently, that she was foolish to trust the man who had not five minutes prior gunned her down like a rabid hound, she knew beyond a doubt that after all this time, he was still the best man she'd ever known.


End file.
